


033 - Angst in the Wintertime

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A bit of angst, heartbreak, and drama; and also, the wintertime.





	033 - Angst in the Wintertime

It all fell apart in the winter. As the streets became icy and the days grew colder, a distance between you and Van formed. It was left in the wake of a late night fight about something you couldn't recall anymore. More and more you'd wake up and he'd not be in bed with you. He'd already gone back to his flat, or maybe just left for anywhere you weren't. It took longer for you to reply to texts. Date nights became a distance memory shrouded in a nostalgic glow. Whenever you were together in a car, the singing out loud didn't happen. As snow fell, you had to acknowledge that maybe the end of relationship was knocking on the door.

Neither of you were making the move though. It was clear both of you were unhappy. You bumped into Larry one afternoon and the warmth that once existed between you was gone. Always a good person, he asked how you were, what you were doing out in the weather, etcetera, but sides were forming and naturally he was on Van's. In that moment you considered asking Larry what you should do. Was there anything left to save? How far gone was Van? Had he fallen out of love with you? You left it though, and hugged him goodbye.

When you got home you considered how you would spend your Saturday night; like there was any other option than to stalk your flat like a moody teenager. It was a little before six when Sheree knocked on your door. She looked dressed to, like, leave the house. To be seen in public. "Y/N, you can't just spend all your time listening to The Beatles and feeling sorry for yourself," she said.

"I don't feel sorry for myself," you clarified.

"Whatever. Get dressed. We're going out."

There was no point in arguing. You put on jeans and tucked them into some snow boots, and looked for a clean shirt. You found a white singlet, and a striped black and white sweater than belonged to Van. The pad of your thumb rubbed across the little red heart printed on the front. You held it and felt breathless. Sheree stood in the door way.

"Please don't wear that," she said. You looked over at her. Of course you were going to fucking wear it. It still smelt like him. You pulled it on, and left the bedroom, walking past Sheree defiantly. "You're doing this to yourself, you know."

"Where are we going?" you asked, changing the subject as you grabbed your jacket from the hook near the front door.

The first stop was food, as it often was for you and your friends. You went for sushi, and regretted filling up on edamame. Then, you followed Sheree into a bar you hadn't been to before. It had an 1950s aesthetic, but with a modern finish. You liked the low hanging lights and the way they casted distorted shadows across everything. You sat at a table and let Sheree order at the bar. She returned with mojitos. You looked across the table at her, confused.

"You know it's winter, right?" you asked deadpan. She opted to not reply. You took a sip and knew immediately you were wrong to judge her choice. It was the best mojito you'd ever had; potentially it was the best cocktail you'd ever had. Sheree could tell by your expression that that is what you thought. She gave you a smug smile.

Three drinks in and the noise level in the bar picked up. People were having fun, and the human movement created a buzz and a warmth that protected you all from the harsh wind outside. You were trying to pull off the coaster-flip trick when a familiar laugh caught your attention. The laugh cracked, and could only be described as aural sunshine. Van. You looked up at Sheree before looking around. She'd clearly already spotted him and glanced at you.

"I did not bring you here on purpose. Do you want to go?" she asked quickly.

"He's my boyfriend, Sheree,"

"Is that what you're still calling this?"

You breathed in hard and stood up. You navigated through the tables to where Van stood with Benji against the back wall. When they saw you coming Benji walked towards you. You greeted him in a hug, and he said he'd go say hi to Sheree. You nodded and took the last few steps to Van carefully and slowly. You didn't hug, you were beyond politeness. You stood close though. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear instinctively, then quickly shoved his hand back into his pocket. You had no idea what you were meant to say. Obviously he did not either, and he looked down in thought. When he did you could see all the freckles across the top of his nose and you remembered the time he let you trace them dot-to-dot in blue ink. The memory smashed through your consciousness like a fucking tornado.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. He looked back up. "I don't know what's happened… I should have… I don't know,"

"I'm sorry too," you replied. It felt good to say it. The acknowledgement was good. He noticed the sweater then.

"You can keep that, if you want" he said and reached out to straighten the hem down where it had folded. It triggered something in you and you felt the back ache, the nose tingle, the tight throat of crying begin. You started to breathe through your mouth; you needed more oxygen. He could see hurt splashed across your face.

"There's some stuff," he was whispering out of kindness, "at mine that you probably want back. I'll drop it around tomorrow before dinner." There was a pause while you caught up. You nodded. There were things of his at yours too. Records. Clothes. An old acoustic guitar that stayed next to your bed in case he wanted to sing you to sleep, which used to happen often. You wondered if he'd want his toothbrush back. He had one at his house, obviously. Would he keep the spare and use it on tour? Or maybe keep it for the next girl's house? "You can still come to Sunday dinner if you want, too. Mum's been asking about you." God, it was a fucked up thing to say, but he wasn't thinking. 

"What?" you squeaked out in pure disbelief.

"Fuck. Yeah. Sorry. That was… weird. I'm sorry, love," he pushed up off the wall and looked around. He hung his head again and took a final look at you. He put his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you closer. He kissed your forehead, lingered for a moment, then walked quickly away out a back door. Hot tears started to roll down your face and Sheree was suddenly at your side. She pulled you out the front and onto the street. You let out a sob and looked around for something… anything… You were dizzy and hurting and it wasn't just hurt, it was agony. You cried. Sheree held you and you bawled into her.

…

Van disappeared off the face of the earth after that. Well, he disappeared to the U.S., or was it Australia? He escaped the rest of Dublin's winter, and left you to watch the snowflakes settle on the window panes. Eventually the cold broke and the first hopeful rays of spring sun shone through. It helped, but not all that much. Sheree still had to come and collect you if you were to leave the house for any reason other than work. You ordered in take away a lot, and if you did venture out all the street buskers had new faces.

Your friends were careful not to mention Catfish or Van around you, but you couldn't help but be reminded on a daily basis. The radio were playing them on repeat, and the city was plastered with alligators advertising a summer show. It was like being allergic to air. Outside was dangerous and every few minutes you had to stop to teach yourself how to breathe again.

The heartbreak, like all wounds, eventually began to heal. The stitches you forced into yourself in small acts of self-love and self-care; a new bottle of perfume, extra bubble baths, clean sheets, they all began to dissolve and the scar tissue left may have been ugly but at least it didn't hurt as much. Once the anger and the shock and the hurt was less, you took stock of what you actually felt post-Van.

The conclusion was easy to draw, but difficult to accept. You'd never quite figured out what went wrong, which meant you couldn't remind yourself why it was bad. You could remember all the beautiful moments. The time you almost convinced Van to get your name tattooed. Watching Van feed his "favourite" duck down near the water. Sewing the holes in his clothes while he played Fifa at your feet. It was all these memories that you could only see through rose coloured lenses that made you realise that you missed him. You missed being his girlfriend. You missed the relationship.

...

Spring was almost over. The succulents you had lined up across your bedroom windowsill looked excited for summer. You were not. Van being back in Dublin meant there was a chance you'd bump into him. You knew you would never be prepared for that. You stood in front of the mirror and practiced your "Oh, hi Van!" face. Calm. Happy. Moved on. You were never a good liar though. In the end it didn't much matter.

He called.

When his name flashed up on your phone on the first day of summer you just stared. You looked at your phone for so long you missed the call and were forced to call him back. He picked up quickly.

"Hello, Y/N." His voice was a little shaky and the full 'hello' was a weird choice. Your heart started to beat too fast and it felt like panic.

"Hi," you replied. Keep the words short. See what he wants. Hang up. Simple.

"Um… How are you?"

"I'm fine," you replied. You could have asked how he was, but if he was good you didn't really want to hear it. If he wasn't, that would be worse. "What do you want, Van?" Maybe you missed something when you put his stuff in a box and left it for Sheree to drop at his. You waited while he paused to think about how he would word it. You could hear him breathing hard down the line.

"Do you want to get a drink sometime soon?" he said quickly. Naturally, you froze. Then, a knock on your door.

"Hold on. Someone's at the door," you told Van. For a split second as you unlocked the door and began to open it you were worried that he'd be standing there. It was Sheree. She smiled, then looked confused. She could read your expression. You pointed to the phone as she walked into your flat. You mouthed 'Van' and she started shaking her hand. She leaped for the phone but you jumped back.

"Hang up," she hissed quietly. You shook your head no. "Y/N,"

"He wants to get a drink," you whispered back.

"What? Why? Give me the phone," she said in another leap. You ran to the bathroom and locked yourself in. She started to bang on the door. He had to have been able to hear that.

"Sorry… um…" you started.

"Is that Sheree?" he asked.

"Yeah,"

"She doesn't want you to talk to me, huh?"

"Yeah. Um. What do you want, Van?" you asked again, but when he replied with 'drinks' you said, "I know, but, like, why?" He paused again.

"I don't know. Lots of stuff happened on tour. I want to tell you about it." It sounded a lot like the job of a girlfriend, or maybe a close friend. You weren't either anymore.

"Van,"

"I miss you, alright? I missed you all fucking winter and on tour and now and I can't stop thinking about you,"

"Please don’t do this," you said, your voice threatening to break, the tears threatening to spill.

"We don't have to go out-out. I can just come over and you can kick me out whenever and we can just figure out what happened."

Time slowed down and there was vivid clarity. You could feel Sheree's worry and apprehension. You could imagine her on the other side of the door, head pressed to the wood, trying to make you hang up with her Jedi mind tricks. You saw Van, sitting on his back step with a smoke between his fingers and his leg jittering. A bundle of nervous energy. You looked past the toothpaste spray on the mirror and stared at yourself. Tired. More than anything else you looked tired. Tired of trying to rebuild your life around the absence of Van. Tired of lying every time you answered with ‘yeah, no, it's cool, it's better this way.’

"Okay. Fine. I'll be home tomorrow night, after 6."

Your gut cried 'mistake! mistake!' but your heart picked a lost of piece of itself up off the ground and said to you softly 'you can fix this for us.'

…

Van knocked on your door at quarter past six. It was strange opening the door for him. You were used to having Van wander in unannounced. You had already decided to not hug, so as you swung the door for him you walked away quickly, leaving him to close it behind you. He followed you into the kitchen where he placed a small box on the bench. He pushed it towards you. You were grateful, regardless of what was inside, because it gave you a reason to continue to not look at him.

Inside the box was a big slice of the vegan peanut butter and chocolate cake you love from the raw food place down the road. You didn't know if you were meant to politely thank him and put it in the fridge, or offer him some, but instead you walked to the draw, got out a spoon, and started to eat it out of the box. Van chuckled and you missed that fucking sound.

"You're welcome," he said. The first words spoken. You looked up then, behind your safety wall of cake. It had been just over four months. He didn't look all that different, except for the fatigue of the tour under his eyes. They still sparkled though. He looked at you, maybe waiting for you to say or do something. You leaned back against the counter top. You weren't the one that called the meeting. "Okay. I've been thinking. I know we broke up because something changed. I think we both get that," he paused waiting for you to confirm. You nodded and put another spoonful in your mouth. He looked like he was regretting the cake. "But I don't know why it changed. I didn’t want it to. I think I thought maybe I stopped loving you, but…" It was getting serious. He was getting serious. You put the cake down. "I didn't. I didn't stop loving you. I still love you, Y/N."

You had options. You could tell him to get fucked, that you were moving on and that you were planning on asking the guy from the raw food place down the road out. Alternatively, you could have fallen into his arms and resumed the role as Van's beautiful girlfriend. The third option was to walk past Van, go to your room and sleep until he and the memories of him just… went away? None of those options felt right.

"There's no point if it ends up like last time," you said softly.

"I know. That's what I'm saying! We'll figure out what happened and it will be different." His angst was undeniable, but his hope was breathtaking.

"We had a fight, that's what happened,"

"I don't remember what the fight was about. Do you?" he asked, and you shook your head no. Even in the days after the fight it was unclear. The catalyst for all of this was likely to be something so small, so insignificant. Then you just tiptoed around each other, and you let the awkwardness grow into something too big to contain. "Then we start again? Please?"

The radio played in the background and a static laced version of Yesterday sounded out. You could hear kids out on the street engaged in a water fight, and people walking down the hall outside your flat's door. There was nothing good in the world that didn’t involve some risk, you knew that. How much risk is worth it, though? Take the cake, for example. There was a risk that you could have choked on it. There was a risk that it had gone bad and you'd be poisoned. There was a risk that it would just be a bit dry. You took the risk, for the reward. Van, though. The risk… The risk was heartbreak. It took a whole goddamn season to come back from that. You couldn't do it again. But the reward…

"It can't be like before," you said. He rushed towards you and bundled you up in his arms.

"It won't be. I promise. I fucking promise."


End file.
